


Happy Birthday, Mister Admiral

by silverbirch



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-04 17:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10284254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverbirch/pseuds/silverbirch
Summary: After forty-five years, a person can get tired of watching Barryaran men tie their hearts in a knot... and Hell hath no meddling like a Vorkosigan bored.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fulldaysdrive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulldaysdrive/gifts).



> I claim absolutely no responsibility for this, this is all fulldaysdrive's fault, and none of my own. 
> 
> Contains big fat **spoilers** for _Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen_.
> 
> Mikhail Shostakovich is an original creation, first mentioned in the story _The Seven Cordelias_

Cordelia had struggled with this question her entire life: when you infallibly knew what was best for people, 100% of the time, how much meddling was too much?

She was being (mostly) facetious with herself when her thoughts drifted to this eternal paradox, it was true. But she spent so much of her life watching people she loved beat themselves senseless, and occasionally to death, over problems with perfectly obvious solutions. 

_Countess Vorkosigan, I have conceived a desperate, prole-boy longing for Lady Alys._

Go ask her out then, Simon, you nitwit. 

_I have fallen madly in love with a beautiful widow but things won't work out QUICKLY ENOUGH AUGH._

Treat her like a human being and buy her dinner, Miles, you idiot. 

_I feel that I am drawn to Simon Illyan, but is it too soon to date? After all, I've only been widowed for three damn decades._

For God's sake, Alys, not you too.

Yes, it was a problem. Cordelia resolved not to let it ruin what was turning out to be a pretty perfect day.

Oliver's house, smaller than hers, was up a little ways from the water, and the large concrete veranda he'd had built was the perfect place to sun herself. The sun sparkled off Oliver's greenhouse (less ornamental than scientific, but a lush hideaway during the cold months) and off the water of their bay down below. A winding, deceptively rickety trail of boards and posts wound down the hill towards the beach; somehow, Ekaterin had made it look at once rustic and untouched, but utterly perfect all the same. She considered Oliver, next to her on the lounge. It was too warm to snuggle, but they usually stayed in proximity. He wore shorts and an open shirt, and was perusing a read-pad, probably of recent reports from his grad students. She rather thought she knew what problem he was beating himself up with.

 _Cordelia, I have an insane stupid hormonal teenage crush on my sexy housekeeper slash au pair, and I am struggling with outdated concepts of fidelity, especially considering_ we _were in a three-way marriage for like_ twenty years.

She was flattered, in a way. Bored, but flattered.

The cause of his unease was even now walking up the path from the beach. Cordelia had to admit, Mikhail Shostakovich painted quite a picture. Two meters tall, long and lean, he guided Everard Xav's toddling footsteps with consummate gentleness and care that would have warmed the heart of any parent, even if he hadn't been, objectively, gorgeous. Blond hair gone white from the sun and stiff and wild from the salt water, deeply tanned skin, and he was still shirtless from his swim. That, with the bare feet and the worn shorts, made him look like a bad Betan erotica director's vision of The Unsullied Farmboy. He was also, as near as Cordelia could tell, completely unaware of his own physical charms, icing on any cake. Oliver didn't do anything quite so obvious as go tense, or for that matter stand up and point like a dog presented with a fascinating new squirrel, but she felt his sudden hyperawareness all the same. 

"Come on, little fellow," Mikhail cajoled "you can make it up the big step. One, two, three, up!" As Evie tried to mount the last step up to the veranda, Mikail reached down and vaulted him over, to the child's wild, delighted giggles. 

Everard Xav favored Oliver, for which Cordelia was secretly, desperately grateful. His hair was still sparse, but looked like it was going to be blond. He was a happy child, and he adored Mikhail, tied for the love he felt for absolutely everyone.

"Afternoon, Mikhail," Oliver said carefully. Verrrrrry carefully. 

"Oh, Oliver!" Mikhail's smile, if not heart-stopping, was certainly enough to cause arrhythmia. His eyes, like his hair, were so pale that they were very nearly white. Evie burrowed his little head into Mikhail's collarbone, babbling ecstatically, and Cordelia would bet Betan dollars that Oliver longed to do the same. Cordelia understood; it was a very  _nice_ collarbone.

She also noticed that Mikhail managed to learn  _Oliver's_ given name. After over a year, he still addressed her variably as  _Milady_ or  _Vicer-whoops-sorry-milady_. 

Oliver stood and walked over, arms out for the boy. Evie, heartless child, switched allegiances in an instant, calling out "da! Da! Da! Da!" 

"Has he been a good boy?" Oliver asked, hefting Evie, still standing very close to Mikhail, Cordelia noticed. 

"Oh, yes. He's always a good boy," Mikhail said, grinning, ruffling Evie's hair. Oh come on, Mikhail. Just let your hand rest on Oliver's shoulder, you so clearly want to. I understand; it's avery _nice_ shoulder. 

"I don't know what I'd do without you," Oliver said. 

 _I could offer some suggestions of what you could do_ with _him_ , Cordelia sniggered internally. 

"Oh, it's...I love it here. Being here. In...this house," Mikhail said, heart in his eyes. 

"I... _we_ love having you here," Oliver said. Cordelia, knowing what to look for, saw the pink flush slowly advancing up his neck. 

"Thank you," Mikhail said. God almighty, they were like...centimeters apart. 

They twittered at each other like birds. Was it time for a push? No, save it for later. This was not the moment. Divide and conquer, Miles would say.

"Hi Mik," she said brightly "I am also here."

"Oh, Milady!" Mikhail said, and he and Oliver sprang apart.

"You can call her Cordelia, you know," Oliver said. Mikhail, as usual, ignored this.

Mikhail fled into the house, babbling something about a shower, and Evie needing his nap. Oliver handed the kid over and stared after Mikhail, bemused.

"Oliver, my love," Cordelia said "that was really a ludicrous amount of sexual tension for a conversation about a toddler."

"What?" Oliver said, distracted.

"Nothing," Cordelia said, thoughts running at top speed. 

Clearly pushing Oliver was useless. It was time to apply pressure to the other end of the lever. 

She waited a respectable amount of time before she followed Mikhail into the house, murmuring excuses about freshening her drink, and did Oliver want one...?

 

<><><>

 

 When Mikhail had been selected by ImpSec, fresh out of the Service Academy, he had visions of undercover work. Danger. Intrigue. Adventure. Possibly sexscapades more...fulfilling than satisfying the drunken bicurious impulses of teenage assholes, whoops, he meant _fraternizing with_ _future servants of the Imperium_. Something out of the vids, anyway. He hadn't, when he had envisioned the deadly super spy he longed to be at twenty, known that deep cover operatives changed quite so many diapers. He hadn't realized being the oldest of seven siblings was going to  _dictate his destiny._

He was getting a  _wee_ bit suspicious, though, as to why, when he'd reported to Olshansky's office regarding a new undercover bodyguarding gig, his superior had glanced up from the flimsies on his desk, looked Mikhail up and down in his dress greens, and said "Yeah, you'll do," and given him the assignment. Mikhail turned the shower down another five or six degrees, about as cold as water could be and remain liquid. It didn't seem purging enough. 

 _Oliver Oliver Oliver Oliver_ , his thoughts ran, pretty much all the time now. It wasn't just because he was handsome, though he was, in that silver foxy way that Mikhail had always favored. It wasn't even just because Mikhail tended, like most good bodyguards, to get obsessed with his marks. It wasn't even the fact that until the bay filled in a bit, population-wise, Oliver was the only male about the age of consent for about fifty kilometers in any direction. Oliver made him feel things that he'd never felt before, like how...nice it would be for the family-thing and the sex-thing to be...the same thing? The way it wasn't, and never could be, on Barryar? His mother, practical minded, had known about his inclinations since early childhood, but fully expected him to marry a nice woman and have lots of nice babies for her to play with. Everyone expected it. 

Oliver was kind, and smart, and considerate, and soon to be a father of three, and had broad shoulders and, Mikhail suspected and indeed endlessly speculated about while in the shower, or bored during Evie's naps, or during his own nocturnal manipulations, hands and lips that knew their business. 

Of course, it couldn't happen that way, because whatever signals Mikhail thought we was reading, it was clearly impossible because Oliver was shacked up with the _single most terrifying woman in the Nexus._

When briefed for the assignment, he had been given extremely abridged access to the extensive ImpSec dossier on Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan, Dowager Countess. It made an interesting counterpoint to what he remembered learning about her in school. Far from being Aral Vorkosigan's thinly tolerated Betan caprice, she was...formidable, in every way, even when she wasn't decapitating Emperors. The ImpSec reports on her were blandly worded, but Mikhail had written enough himself to read the analyst's terror of this woman emanating from the page. 

At the bottom of the report had been an acronym that Mikhail had never encountered before: LSDL. He asked Olshanksy about it. 

 _Let sleeping dogs lie. Trust me, Shostakovich, you'll be_ much _better off._

If she'd decapitate a sitting Emperor, who knows what she'd do to some skinny homewrecker? There probably wouldn't be enough of him left to bury. If she couldn't get the job done, he was positive her son, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, would arrive in force.

 _Where's the son of a bitch who broke my mother's heart!?_ Mikhail pictured him saying, flanked by goons with plasma arcs. He wouldn't even have to do it in person; Auditors could order  _orbital bombardments._

It wouldn't happen, it couldn't happen. Until he could transfer to another assignment (maybe Camp Permafrost needed a babysitter?) he would just have to...take more and colder showers, he guessed. Play it safe. Stay as far away from Oliver as possible while still protecting him from all harm.

All of these reasonable thoughts were driven right out of his head when he left the bathroom, towel around his waist, to find Cordelia sitting on the edge of his bed, legs crossed, waiting for him.

Eep.

"Oh uh, Milady-"

"Can it, sonny, you and me need to talk," she looked dangerously focused; he felt like an ant on the other end of a child's magnifying glass.

"Uh-"

She stood and began pacing back and forth. Mikhail froze. There were predators who stalked by movement, right?

She seemed to be examining the room. She wouldn't see much, it was just a room.

"You don't seem to like to leave much of a mark, do you?" she said mildly "is that something they teach you boys at Impsec?"

"Holy shit, how did you know - I mean, ImpSec? I'm not...affiliated with that organization," he finished lamely.

She laughed "it's okay, Mikhail, we figured it out in...ten minutes, thereabouts."

Mikhail sat on his narrow bed and buried his face in his hands "oh God. Wait, does Oli-uh, Jole knows?"

"Of course. We eventually decided it was rather sweet of Allegre, really. He and Oliver have been friends for decades, and I know he wasn't exactly in love with the two of us living so far from a nice, safe military base."

 "Oh," Mikhail said.

"So how long have you been in love with Oliver?" Cordelia asked, perfectly casually.

Visions of his severed head stuffed into a shopping bag danced through Mikhail's mind. Unfortunately, his mouth continued to verbalize "how - I'm not- I - uh..."

"Oh my, what a fetching blush," Cordelia said with a grin.

"Milady Cordelia-"

"Ugh. Barryaran males," Cordelia made a dismissive gesture, and Mikhail felt obscurely wounded on behalf of his planet and sex "look, Mikhail, I'm Betan, alright? This isn't going to bother me."

"You mean-"

"I mean, I am one hundred percent comfortable with the concept of sharing someone's heart and soul. After that, what possible complication is a body? I shared Aral with Barryar years before I shared him with - hm, no. Not my story, not now. You'll behave unpredictably if you know."

Watching her strategize, he felt, would always be alarming, even if what she was preparing to make war upon wasn't your sex life.

"Hm. Hmm, hmm. You  _are_ in love with him, right?"

"I, uh, I don't know, actually," Mikhail said, guessing that honesty might end the conversation before embarrassment caused him to fling himself off a cliff.

"Hm. Have you dreamed about him?" Cordelia asked.

He went scorchingly red.

"Oh, no. Sorry. Not _that_ kind of dream. You're obviously having _that_ kind of dream. For which I don't blame you, incidentally, he is quite a dish. I mean...have you had a dream where the two of you are together, reading on a beach, and he has his arms around your shoulders while you watch the kids make asses of themselves in the water? Something like that?"

The details weren't right. It was more...seeing him across from Mikhail at the breakfast table, the way he did most mornings, but...different. And Oliver would look up and smile, which he also did most mornings, but the smile would be something personal, a gift just for Mikhail.

"Oh my God," Mikhail said, burying his face in his hands.

"Oh, that's a big yes," Cordelia said, smiling wide "you're in love, kid. I hate to be the one to break it to you."

"I am?" Mikhail asked, looking up.

"Oh yes."

"I'm in love," Mikhail said, experimentally. It felt...not that strange.

"Good. Just making sure," Cordelia said, resuming her pacing. Just making sure of what? That his mortal humiliation could be as complete as possible?

"Aha!" She said, turning suddenly "next week. Oliver's birthday. You will attend."

"I'll be taking care of Evie."

"Ma Rykov raised seven children, I am  _certain_ she can manage three toddlers for one evening. Good, that levels the playing field. You will attend, Mikhail. Wear something..." she looked him up and down, and for the first time since the interminable conversation had begun, he remembered that he was nearly naked.

"Do you have something...uniformesque, that isn't a uniform? Wear that."

"Why?" Mikhail had never heard that note in his own voice before, something hopeless and forlorn, like a kitten at the bottom of a well.

"Hush, Mikhail," Cordelia said "mama is mind-gaming. Okay, good, we're on the same page. I'll let you know when your opening arrives."

With that, she turned and walked out of his room, as casual as anything.

Mikhail wasn't sure whether he wanted to burst into tears, into flames, get roaring drunk, or put his nerve disruptor between his teeth and send himself screaming to the Firsters. Since he couldn't do any of them, he settled for getting dressed. 

 

 <><><>

 

 It was a  _very nice_ party, if Cordelia said so herself. 

For the thousandth time since relinquishing the Viceroyalty to the supremely talented Lord and Lady Vorob'yev (they had sent their apologies for being unable to attend; Mia, even better, had sent over a bottle of Vervani scotch that Cordelia knew to be reserved for state gifts) she blessed the freedom to invite who she pleased, to see and be seen by nobody but friends and loved ones. There, by the punch bowl, was Dr. Tatiana and her colleague Alexei from SWORD, chatting with some of Cordelia's former office cronies. The Betan Ambassador, Councillor Vermilion, looked surprisingly relaxed; usually it made a larger statement of its herm nature when among Barryarans, a form of low-key cultural terrorism that Cordelia heartily approved, but tonight it wore a sarong and sandles. Fyodor Haines and his wife, along with little Freddie, who was no longer little, but All-Sergyar, All-Barryar women's aikido champion and on the arm of Lon ghem Nevitt, much to her father's obvious chagrin. Lon had gone downright native; not only was his clan decal small and discreetly placed, his clothes didn't even look that expensive.

They were, of course, but they didn't look it.

Oliver was at the center of a high-density wad of his old army buddies, the air of manly camaraderie not lessened in the slightest by the presence of Kaya Vorinnis and Colonel Vorberg from the ISWA. Oliver had his slightly too animated look; he'd obviously been sampling the Vervani scotch. Cordelia gestured to one of the passing caterers (who was awfully buff for a waiter, really Allegre, could you _be_ more obvious?) and gave careful instructions that all of Oliver's drinks should be cut with electrolytes and watered down. She needed him relaxed, not inebriated.

Speaking of needing to relax, there was Mikhail, dressed fetchingly in black and holding up a wall, looking low-key miserable with his glass of fizzy water. He alternated between staring at the floor and staring at Oliver across the room with such a look of hangdog longing that Cordelia was surprised everyone in the room couldn't read it. Well. Barryarans.

"Careful Cordelia," Vermilion murmured in its light, airy voice "that beautiful lamppost is making eyes at your Admiral."

"I've been trying to get them together for months," Cordelia said.

"Months?" Vermilion scoffed " _months?_ I saw them chatting earlier. They flung out so many hormones they probably sent all the local wildlife into estrous. Are you losing your touch, girl?"

"I am old enough to be your mother-father, you horrid herm," Cordelia said affectionately "and keep your nose out. I've got an op running."

"You never let me have any fun."

She walked over to Mikhail, her Hostess Smile firmly in place.

"How are you holding up?"

"I'm having a great time, milady," he said politely, bless his beautiful manners "thank you for inviting me."

"That was a Cordelia question, not a hostess question."

"I'm fucking _miserable_."

"There we go. Have a drink, Mikhail, relax. You'll get your chance." Cordelia had six or seven contingency plans in place, after all. If only there were a way to brag about this to Miles without giving him a boot disk error in his cultural programming.

"I can't, I'm-" he clamped his mouth shut.  _On duty_ , she finished.

"Actually you're not. Have you checked out the caterers? There's at least four ImpSec plainclothes here."

"Six," he said.

She raised her eyebrows.

"I went to school with the bartender, and Captain Voriniss' date has a nerve disruptor in his pants. Non-metaphorically," Mikhail said "sloppy of him. You can't see  _mine_." This was true, Cordelia reflected. 

 "Why are you...assisting me with this?" Mikhail asked quietly.

"Because, contrary to popular belief Mikhail, love, like happiness, is a non zero-sum game," she replied. She made sure he changed out his mineral water for wine, and prepared to make another round to see to her guests.

 

<><><>

 

The party wound down, as parties do. The younger crowd adjourned down the hill to the beach, where Cordelia had arranged for lights and large buckets full of ice and cider. She had run sufficient interference for Freddie that her father failed to notice the extremely predatory gleam in her eye as she dragged Lon down the hill by their linked hands. Mikhail had been dragooned as well; apparently they were going to play volleyball, and his height was a hot commodity.

Ah, youth.

Most of the elders had either left or were relaxing on the veranda, sampling things with a much higher alcohol content than the beach cider, albeit in far smaller quantities. It was nearing midnight, and Cordelia longed for her bed.

She found Oliver sitting peacefully, alone, on a stone bench overlooking the water. He looked fuzzy around the edges, but was clearly far from drunk. Good. Excellent.

"So," she said without preamble, flopping down next to him on the bench "fifty-three."

'Fifty-three," he agreed, smiling his Oliver smile. 

"How does it feel?"

"It feels...approximately like fifty, and probably very similar to fifty-four. Good, it feels good," Oliver put his arm around her shoulders; bless his thoughtful heart.

"I was fifty-three when we met," Cordelia said "isn't that funny?"

"Not particularly, no," he said, but he grinned at her anyway.

" _I_ think it's funny."

"You've always had a dreadful sense of humor," Oliver said, kissing her on the forehead.

Oh, Oliver. You have _no_ idea.

"I think I'm going to take a walk to the top of the hill, look at the stars," he said.

"That sounds like a wonderful idea," Cordelia said approvingly.

"Join me in a little bit?" He asked winsomely. Really, at fifty-three, he shouldn't be able to pull off winsome anymore. But he could; Cordelia guessed it was his eyelashes.

"Maybe," she said archly, because she didn't like to lie. He stood, kissed her again, and wandered off to unlit hilltop. 

Mikhail arrived ten minutes later, breathless, hair escaping in every direction, barefoot, and sandy, looking panicked.

"Where's Oliver?" he panted. Cordelia patted his back while he caught his breath; she happened to know he went on twenty kilometer runs every morning, he must have broken speed records getting back up the hill.

"He's alone up top, looking at the stars. Introspecting, I'm sure."

Mikhail's face crumpled "Oh, I...oh," he said quietly "I...think I'm going to head to bed, then."

Cordelia spent a brief moment of silence praying for patience to whatever deity or demiurge might be listening.

"Shut up," she snapped, to whatever excuse Mikhail had been in the process of opening his mouth to make.

"I-" 

"Shut up, go up the path, and talk to him. If I see either of you in the next two hours, I am going to dose you both with the most violent aphrodisiac Betan biochemistry has to offer and lock you in the garden shed at gunpoint, do you understand?" She said through gritted teeth.

"Cordelia-"

"Gunpoint. Garden shed.  _Get out of here._ "

Mikhail fled her wrath; but as long as he was going up the hill, she didn't care.

Vermilion, watching from the shadows under a tree, applauded quietly.

"Subtle," it said.

"Barryarans," Cordelia sighed.

 

<><><>

 

Mikhail found his way to the top without much trouble. He liked to do his morning exercises there, because the view was always a treat. Late at night, with the stars overhead and the silvery phosphorescence of the sea...it was spectacular.

There was a gazebo set up, covered in flowering plants, and a few square meters of flagstones. Oliver sat in one of the wrought-iron chairs, under the sky. Mikhail walked up, making some noise to be considerate.

"Hello, love," Oliver said, turning around with a smile "oh...Mikhail."

"Hi," Mikhail said.

"I'm sorry, I thought you were Cordelia."

The hill, sadly, wasn't steep enough to have a good cliff for Mikhail to jump off of. He'd just roll through the underbrush and end up back at the house, where Cordelia would probably be driven to extreme measures in her campaign to ruin his life.

"Are you expecting her?" Mikhail said "sorry, I'll go."

"Don't be silly. Pull up a chair, sit with me a bit."

"Oh. Okay."

Mikhail sat next to Oliver, and they looked out at the water silently for a few minutes.

"Are you all right?" Oliver asked.

"Me? I'm fine," Mikhail said.

"You seemed a little off downstairs."

"No, I was having a good time. It was a lovely evening."

"I thought ImpSec taught people to lie better than that," Oliver said, warmly amused.

Mikhail sighed. Blown like the wind, as usual "yeah, well, there's a reason I'm a bodyguard, not a field agent."

"However you came to be here, Mikhail, I'm glad to have you," Oliver said. Mikhail was glad it was too dark for Oliver to see him flush. 

"Oh...thank you," Mikhail replied.

"How did you come to be so good with kids?"

"I'm the oldest of seven," Mikhail said dryly. 

"Oh, that would do it," Oliver said with a chuckle.

"Tell me about it. But I like kids, always have. The worst they do is throw up on you."

They didn't betray you, or lead you on, or refuse to accept the whole of your personhood while telling you why it was for your own good.

"I guess that's true. Evie hasn't managed that feat yet. Thank god I have you as the first line of defense."

Mikhail watched Oliver in profile. It wasn't just that he was handsome. It was...there was something basically kind about Oliver, basically decent. A less weaponized version of the directness and honesty he saw in Cordelia, Mikhail realized. No wonder they loved each other. No wonder they had each other.

_Am I ever going to have anything?_

"Since we know...Mikhail, this can't be an easy posting for you," Oliver said, turning to look at him, concerned. Honest concern.  _You are important to me_ , his gaze said. Maybe it was the unaccustomed alcohol but in that moment, that look on Oliver's face was almost enough for Mikhail, even if he was never offered anything else.

"What?"

"You're out in the middle of nowhere. You're ImpSec, I know, but you're twenty-nine. You never take leave. You never go out."

Why would he? Everything he wanted was here.

Oh  _god_ , how much wine had he had?

"You should...go out. Try to build something for yourself. You can't spend your life watching out for an old man and his babies."

"I...think I could. Actually," Mikhail said.

"There's a lot of lovely young women on Sergyar..." Oliver offered neutrally. Mikhail had received this sort of open ended not-question often enough in his life; he was merciful and answered directly.

"That's nice for them," Mikhail said bluntly "but I'm actually not, uh, interested. In girls. I'm gay," he clarified "or...monosexual or whatever the lady from SWORD told me the term is."

Oliver paused while he took this in "ah. Hence Sergyar."

"I...heard that it didn't matter as much here. I requested a transfer."

"It doesn't. There are lots of lovely young men on Sergyar, too," Oliver said, clearly meaning to be helpful.

"No." Mikhail said closing his eyes.

"Take weekends, go to Kareenburg, I have enough help. Obviously if you met someone, he'd be welcome here-"

" _No-_ "

"You'd be able to start a family, if you wanted-"

"No!" Mikhail realized he was shouting, but the wine sent him barreling forward "I don't want any of that, I don't want a _lovely young man_ , I don't want to go to Kareenburg, I don't ever want to be anywhere else,  _because I am completely in love with you, you oblivious asshole!"_

Mikhail clapped a hand over his mouth, going red-hot with shame, tears of frustration in his eyes. Oh god, what had he done, he'd ruined everything...he snuck a glance at Oliver.

Oliver was smiling. No, he was  _grinning._

"Do you know, I once said something very similar to Aral Vorkosigan," Oliver said casually, as though he hadn't just disclosed that he'd once made a pass at the most powerful man of two generations.

"I...you did?" Certain of Cordelia's veiled statements were suddenly clarifying themselves in Mikhail's mind like blasts of plasma fire. He felt sudden, wild hope.

"Yes," Oliver said reminiscently "I was twenty-seven, and very, erm, frustrated with him."

"How, uh, how did he answer?"

"I'll show you."

"Show me what-" but Mikhail's words were cut off by Oliver's lips on his own.

It was...it was so many things, but above all it was  _nice._ No shame, no furtiveness, no aggression, no desperation, no denial. This was a man, not a boy or a guilt-ridden teenager, and a man knew himself, and what he wanted. Oliver's hand was warm on the back of his neck, and he tasted like scotch and something that Mikhail guessed was just...his essential Oliver-ness. Oliver made an appreciative noise, deep in his throat, before he broke from the kiss and looked at Mikhail with something that looked...very close to the expression Mikhail had seen in his dreams.

"Wow," Mikhail said.

"Right?" Oliver said "that was my reaction, too."

"Wow," Mikhail repeated "I mean, wow, but...Aral Vorkosigan,  _really?_ "

Oliver laughed, before resting his forehead against Mikhail's, their lips centimeters apart. "Where do you think the other half of Everard Xav came from?"

"Um, besides...not from the Viceroy of Sergyar?"

"It's true," Oliver said "Corwin Pierre, too, in his replicator. And whatever his little brother will be named, a couple of years from now."

Mikhail, lacking any intelligent reply, kissed him instead. This went on for a few more perfect, breathless minutes.

"You're crying," Oliver said, looking concerned.

"'M not," Mikhail protested "I'm just happy. I mean, this isn't...this isn't going to be..."

A one time thing? Regretted in the morning? Brushed under the carpet?

"No," Oliver said with a gentle smile "I don't think so." He stood, pulling Mikhail to his feet, drawing him into the gazebo "come here, Mikhail."

Mikhail paused at the threshold. "Um. Oliver?"

"Yes, love?"

That word, spoken so matter-of-factly, nearly derailed him, but Mikhail soldiered on "Do you...think you could call me Misha?"

"Misha," Oliver considered, voice warm "yes, I suppose I could."

Oliver drew him inside, and that was about it for words, at least the kind spoken out loud.

 

<><><>

 

The next (very late) morning, Cordelia -on a whim that wasn't a whim- decided to join Oliver for breakfast. She had left the night before confident that the situation was going to find its resolution, and she enjoyed being right. Was that a crime?

She found her boys sitting at the table; Oliver, who gave her a crooked grin; Everard Xav, who was making a mess of his groats, and Mikhail, who was radiating so much pure joy Cordelia considered going back for sunglasses.

"Well good morning, sunshine!" Cordelia said brightly.

"Good morning, my love," Oliver said.

"Excuse me, I was talking to Mikhail."

Mikhail glanced up from Evie's breakfast carnage and blushed furiously; but he was grinning too. A good change.

"Mila-Cordelia," he corrected himself firmly "thank you. Thank you so much. Just...thank you."

Cordelia gave a half-bow before sitting herself down.

"I thought I detected your fingerprints all over last night, meddling woman," Oliver said, mock-sternly.

"You needed a push. I trust you achieved a meeting of the minds?"

"Twice," Oliver said, innocence itself. Mikhail, though he wasn't eating, went off on an extensive choking fit anyway.

Cordelia settled for waggling her eyebrows as she grabbed herself some groats, and the four of them ate in companionable silence.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Misha, you're fired," Oliver said.

"Oh,  _Misha_ is it?" Cordelia asked.

"Cordelia, hush," Oliver said.

"What? Why?" Mikhail -Misha's- eyes were wide with alarm.

"You're still on ImpSec's payroll, love. Besides, you haven't collected your credit chit from me in seven months."

"Whoops," Cordelia said, sniggering.

"I'm a really bad spy," Misha said, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

"Thankfully you have other great qualities. Twice, I believe you said-" Cordelia began, giggling.

"Cordelia!" Oliver chided.

"Sorry, sorry," Cordelia said, still busting up.

Oliver talked over her suppressed chortles with admirable patience "calm down, Misha, I'm not letting you go. It just would feel weird to have you on payroll, under the circumstances."

"Don't get your honey where you get your money," Cordelia chimed in.

"Cordelia..."

"That's like, axiomatic."

"Cordelia!" Oliver faux-snapped. He was smiling too much to make a good show of it "and I thought you should move out of that little room downstairs. Take one of the bigger ones, up here."

"You could always move into _Oliver's_ room," Cordelia suggested.

To her delight, Oliver flushed "Yes well...that too."

Cordelia could't hold it in anymore; she burst into laughter, so hard she bent over the table, tears running down her face. She couldn't stop, she was almost dry-heaving.

"Woman, what is so funny?" Oliver said. Misha just looked concerned. And embarrassed, but hell, that was the boy's default face anyway.

It took her several tries, but finally she stopped laughing enough to get out "I can't wait to tell _Miles_."

Oliver grinned ruefully "Oh, dear." Misha, at the other end of the table, went a little pale and muttered something about _orbital bombardments_.

"Oliver," she said, wiping tears from her face "I tell you what. When my birthday rolls around, don't get me a present. The look on Miles' face will be gift enough for me."

"It's a deal," Oliver said, reaching over to grip her hand. Misha, clearly not wanting to be left out, reached across the table to grab Oliver's other hand.

"Yes," Cordelia said "it's the best deal there is."


End file.
